


Me and My Shadow

by Thornvale



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Hyrule Warriors, The Legend of Zelda: Skyward Sword, The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess
Genre: Adventure, Fantasy, Gen, M/M, Magic, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, This says slow burn but it’s ghirahim so who knows what will happen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-22
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2019-11-27 13:10:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thornvale/pseuds/Thornvale
Summary: Ghirahim is mysteriously resurrected within an unknown period of Hyrule’s timeline. How long has it been since the fall of Demise? Why now? And with only a mysterious and unpredictable Twili to help find the reincarnation of his master, it seems only one challenge after another will arise in this unfamiliar land.And perhaps the biggest challenge of all is right there by his side.





	1. The House on the Hill

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is a story written for fun and there is no real specific point in the timeline this takes place, only a long, long time after the events of Skyward Sword. (I’ve also never played SS so if I’ve missed any details about Ghirahim, sorry! Just going with what I remember from cutscenes.) 
> 
> Enjoy!

 Ghirahim’s eyes fluttered open.

He stared up at the blue sky. In the distance was a large, white cloud drifting slowly along with the warm breeze. A flock of chittering birds soared across the heavens, singing their enthusiasm towards the beautiful day. There were many of them - twenty-eight, Ghirahim quickly computed. It seemed, then, that his mental functions were in full working order.

The sword spirit slowly sat up and looked down at himself. The illusion of a mostly Hylian appearance had seemingly returned, so his magic, too, was functioning acceptably, at least to the point of creating a warm and fleshy body about himself. He had apparently forgotten clothes during his slumber - or whatever it was that he had just woken up from. With a small hum of approval as he took himself in, he then finally turned his gaze to his surroundings.

How interesting. _Odd_ , but interesting.

He was sat in grass beside a rocky road. The luscious field stretched far and wide, rolling into gentle hills that were crowned with forests. There were mountains in the distance. It somehow all seemed very familiar, but all rather … different, too, and if he had been there before but also had not. Looking over his shoulder, he could see a small array of buildings a half-mile or so away, smoke unfurling from thatched roofs and carts ambling noisily about the road. He looked back at the road upon hearing a small sound.

A horse and cart sat there, apparently having stopped before Ghirahim had awoken. A surprised Hylian held the reins tightly, his mouth dumbly hanging open as if he had just witnessed something dumbfounding. Given the slightly scorched grass around the spirit’s body, something interesting _had_ occurred, though Ghirahim was still in the middle of trying to process a rather sudden turn of events.

“Well?” He questioned the Hylian, gracefully rising to his feet and flicking his long fringe out of his eye. Unashamed of his nakedness, he regarded the other man, hand on his hip. “Are you going to sit there gawking at me all day, or are you doing to tell me where - and _when_ I am?”

The Hylian’s eyes widened slightly. With something of a stammer, he nodded.

“Uh … y-you just appeared there! In a flash! How did you do that?!”

Ghirahim merely rolled his eyes in response. Waving his hand down over his body, glittering diamonds, the image of his magic, flocked to his form, covering him in a particular arrangement until he was satisfied. The magic left a skin-tight and revealing white bodysuit in its wake, along with diamond earrings and the spirit’s preferred colourful make-up.

“As easily as that. Now, if you don’t answer my questions, I swear to you that I will leave you bleeding in a nearby ditch being pecked at by crows.” With another wave of his hand, Ghirahim summoned a rapier from thin air and twirled it expertly - and threateningly - before sheathing it at his belt. The Hylian audibly gulped.

“O-oh. Uh - it’s been a long time since a sorcerer has come by here. You’re near Milon Ranch, in Hyrule. What kinda business has someone like you got with people like us?”

Ghirahim sighed. “Hyrule, hm? I thought that your ilk might infest the Surface again eventually. How long has it been since your descent from the heavens?”

Feeling a pang of frustration at the look of complete idiocy following his question, the spirit folded his arms and impatiently tapped his foot, awaiting at least some semblance of an answer that might better inform him of just how long he had been … dead? Sleeping? Perhaps the more pertinent question was just how he had found himself back together all in one piece in the middle of nowhere, but he doubted a mindless human would be able to offer up any feasible answer.

“I think you’re the one with your head in the heavens, man. You think I ain’t seen drunks at the side of the road before?” The Hylian responded, fuelling Ghirahim’s ire yet further. “Look, I can give ya a lift to the ranch if you need it, but you, uh … well, ya look like you belong more in Castle Town. Is that the fashion over there these days?”

“I belong with the demons,” Ghirahim huffed in response, though he moved forwards and climbed onto the cart anyway, lounging back with his arms behind his head. “Fine. I need to rest following my grand entrance back into existence. It _was_ grand, wasn’t it? And you can address me as _Lord_ , Hylian; I daresay your status as a meagre farmer or merchant or _whatever_ you are pales in comparison to my prestigious position, though it seems enough time has passed that perhaps your garb could be that of a noble and I would be none-the-wiser.”

The Hylian confusedly glanced down at his dirtied tunic and frowned before gently whipping the reins, urging his two horses into movement.

“There ain’t been no demons around here for a very long time, mi’lord. Not for the time I’ve been alive, anyways - and my father, too. And his father before him and his father before him, maybe even his father before him. What ya wanna do with a buncha dead demons and monsters, huh? This realm hasn’t seen an invasion from nothin’ for centuries.”

The news was troubling, not only for the indication that the demons were still yet unsuccessful in their pursuit of the Triforce, but for the sheer and unclear amount of time that Ghirahim had found himself dead to the world. The spirit ignored the human and contemplated it all, instead, rubbing at his smooth jaw as he gazed out across the boundless realm as it slowly passed. So Hylia and that miserable man-servant of hers had won, then, and defeated Demise. That was all Ghirahim could remember. There was a painless descent into darkness … death, he had presumed, as his body disintegrated into nothingness. How was it that the Demon Blade, the hand of the Demon King, had been put back together and revived?

And could it mean that Demise’s curse had come to fruition and that his master was somewhere out there, awaiting Ghirahim’s return?

“Actually …” the Hylian continued, breaking the brief silence. He scratched at his stubbly chin, dark eyes glancing at Ghirahim before quickly turning back to the road. “There _was_ somethin’ a couple of nights ago. I guess you’ve seen a lot of weird stuff in your time, right? Being a sorcerer and all.”

“Unless you can reunite me with my master, Demise, I have no interest in what you are going to tell me,” the spirit answered at once, a dramatic and woeful tone to his voice.

“Well, I don’t know nothin’ about that, mi’lord - not unless the thing I’ve got hiding at my ranch is your master …”

“ _My_ master would not be found hiding at a _ranch_.” Despite his words, Ghirahim sat up a bit and glared at the scruffy Hylian, an expression of complete disdain on his handsome features as he looked the other up and down. “Certainly not among the likes of _you_.”

He was surprised to be met with a soft laugh. It irritated him that the man seemed so completely unintimidated. Just how long had Hyrule been at peace, then, if the humans were barely wary of the strange and dangerous? Or was it just this idiot in particular? Eyes narrowing, he crossed his legs and faced his body away from the man, huffing. He thought it would be unwise to cause trouble before he truly had a lay of the land and its people; the last thing he needed in the midst of such confusion was a mob on his back.

“The likes of me is called Milon. That’s my ranch there.”

“Yes, I gathered as much. You know, from the name.”

“Yeah, okay,” Milon laughed again. “Well, you’re welcome to stay there a while if you need to rest on up after your grand entrance. Maybe you can meet this fellow and see if it’s someone ya know, at least. And I’ve got horses if you’ve got the rupees.”

Ghirahim just scoffed. He certainly did not have rupees, though was more than capable of acquiring them through various means. Annoyingly, a horse would likely prove useful in an area as new as this one, as trying to teleport without knowledge of where he was going would be impossible. Though he had traversed the Surface before, things had changed to the point he did not recognise this landscape at all, despite the fact something about it felt minutely familiar. Perhaps the lack of demonic strongholds and tyranny had something to do with it.

He endured the inane nattering of Milon for a short while longer as they travelled into the rustic and busy ranch. The Hylian’s knowledge proved relatively useful, especially when they were faced with travellers who looked so strange that they could not possibly be human, and certainly were not demons. The different species mingled together easily, laughing as they went about their day, giving each other directions or information about the area. There were people who looked horribly like _sharks_ , much to Ghirahim’s dismay. What had the Goddesses been thinking?! Were they supposed to be Zora?

“What _are_ they?” He asked aloud, pointing brazenly to a group of the creatures sat around a table. The group of them looked up at him in affront as the cart passed.

“They’re Zora, of course! I don’t mean to be rude, but ask quietly, you know? These travellers pass through this ranch on the way to Castle Town. Their rupees keep us going. I won’t have ‘em scared off.” Milon’s brow furrowed slightly. “How is it you don’t know who the Zora are, eh?”

“What is _that?”_ Ghirahim asked again, louder this time as he pointed to what appeared to be some kind of walking tree carrying a basket of apples. The strange thing hooted obnoxiously at him through the snout on its wooden face.

“A Deku! They’re proud people, mi’lord. Are you trying to be funny?”

The spirit racked through his databases. Every creature was recorded as something recognisable, but evolved in many regards, save for the humans. That they had had the space to change so perhaps meant that it had been even longer than he thought since Demise’s fall, and the fact the races mingled without qualm meant there had indeed been a long era of peace. Had Demise’s curse even come to fruition at all?

When the cart came to a halt outside of an old, brick house, Ghirahim descended from the cart without so much as a thanks. The house was located at the very crown of the collection of buildings, on a small hill that sat beneath the afternoon sun. Nearby, there was an inn and a few small shops. Nothing interesting, certainly nothing useful. With a sigh, Ghirahim placed his fists on his hips and beheld the pathetic display from the rise of the hill as the rancher set about loosing the horses from the cart.

“I need a room,” Ghirahim demanded, taking a few steps back to regard Milon intensely. “And see to it that a map of Hyrule is sent to me at once.”

“You can see Hilda in the inn about a room,” Milon answered wearily, though not unkindly. “And Mila has maps in her shop just there across the road. I think she has _everything_ in there, actually -“

“Daddy!”

Ghirahim spun around at the abrupt yell, hand flying for the hilt of his rapier, until he saw that the unnatural sound had come from a small Hylian child stood at the door of the house on the hill. Slowly narrowing his eyes, he turned his nose up at the scene that ensued: Milon and the child ran to each other to embrace, and he picked the girl up to spin her around as they laughed in excitement. When he put her down, the child gazed happily up at her father with big, brown eyes, clinging a stuffed toy horse to her chest.

“Oh, Belon, it’s so good to see you. How is Epona, hm?” Milon poked the stuffed toy. “Looks like she’s got a hole again. How do you manage that?”

Ghirahim rolled his eyes and turned his attention away from the sickeningly sweet reunion. Turning back to the small settlement, he was quick to take in just what was where and how much of a threat any of the denizens or travellers posed. Very little, it seemed. There were no warriors or armed guards in sight, even as afternoon fell into early evening. Wasn’t night the most dangerous time upon the Surface? Especially for a poor, unguarded place right in the middle of open land.

He looked idly towards the large barn by the house upon seeing movement in his peripheral vision, and then had to look again. What he had thought had been a mere shadow was actually a figure, stood within the shade of the barn. What caught his attention was that it seemed to be looking at him, too, whereas the others had been surprisingly quick to dismiss him and his colourful appearance, as if they had seen strangely clad folk like him often. The figure was, upon closer inspection, well over seven feet tall - was it wearing stilts, or was it a member of some freakishly tall race he had yet to look upon? It was cloaked in several layers of black cloth, its entire body hidden, and what seemed to be an expressionless silver mask concealed its face. The thing was perfectly still, and something about its long and slender, dark presence  unnerved even Ghirahim somewhat. The eyes of the mask were sealed over and stared blankly back at him in turn, inviting his curiosity for a moment.

“Mi’lord?”

The sword spirit was brought back into focus. After glancing irritatedly at Milon, he looked back towards the barn and saw that the figure had mysteriously vanished into nothingness, as if it had not truly existed in the first place.

“This is my daughter, Belon,” Milon continued, gesturing down towards the brown-haired girl with a loving smile. “If you ever need a hand pickin a good horse, she’s the best there is at match-making, so to speak. She knows every last thing about ‘em.”

“I truly could not care less,” Ghirahim responded with a dismissive wave of his hand, already beginning to walk away, bored with the interaction. He only had one goal in mind, and it did not involve getting in cahoots with Hylians, of all things. If he had things his way, none of them would even exist. To achieve such a thing, however, meant to ruin the era of peace that seemed to be tarnishing a once demonic land like a plague of good, and that meant to find Demise.

But where to start? Teleporting to him was impossible, he knew that already, for to do such a thing meant to latch on to the Demon King’s very spirit and essence, which was mysteriously … lacking, just like before when his master had been sealed away. Perhaps when Demise reincarnated, it meant that his energy signature had changed, too. Whatever the case, there was no chance of venturing to him directly. Not now, at least.

Stalking off down the hill, Ghirahim headed for the small shop that Milon had directed him to, stopping to stare at its ragged and filthy outward appearance a moment before kicking the door open to venture into the pathetic little hovel. As expected, the place was just as much a mess on the inside, too, cluttered with all kinds of decidedly useless items. Mouldy, uneven carpets lined the stone floor, kicking up a cloud of dust whenever Ghirahim stepped foot on one, and the outside world was concealed by translucent red curtains across the window. Behind the counter stood a wizened older lady with greenish skin and a purple scarf tied around her head. Her wrinkled frown turned upwards when she spotted Ghirahim, and she immediately stood up to greet him, apparently shorter standing up from her stool than she was sitting down. Her yellow eyeballs barely breached the edge of the counter.

“Oh my,” Mila croaked, apparently thrilled. “Oh _my._  Look at you! So fashionable! Did you buy those clothes from my sister’s shop in Castle Town? Oh! Look here!” Seizing a bejewelled necklace that had previously just been sat pride of place on a velvet cushion, the elder rushed around the side of the counter to hold it upwards, stroking the jewels invitingly. It was indeed an impressive piece, enough to momentarily distract Ghirahim. “Crafted by the Gerudo themselves with rubies mined by the Gorons. It would look so beautiful on you, dear boy. Come, come, try it on!”

“I find myself in need of a map, actually,” Ghirahim said dryly, though his gaze remained on the pretty necklace. “A map of … Hyrule, or whatever this infernal place is called. Like, now _._ And I would truly advise against calling somebody like me a mere _boy_ if you would like to wake up with your eyeballs intact in the morning. So, let’s bear that in mind going forward, shall we?”

“Of course!” Mila agreed with unnerving enthusiasm, about as contemplative regarding threats as Milon had been. That was to say, not at all. She bustled back behind the counter, knocking various wares over as she went, and produced a large square of parchment that she hastily unfolded and splayed open for her guest to look upon. “Only the finest for you! I bought these maps from a supposedly renowned explorer. Strange man - but that’s beside the point. You’ll find all settlements and roads in Hyrule here. Are we going travelling, hm?” The lady cocked her head slightly, peering at him from the side of the map as she held it up. “You speak very good Hylian for somebody not from around here, you know.”

“Thank you,” Ghirahim replied with condescending mock gratitude, and then he snatched the map straight from Mila’s hands, clicking his fingers and causing it to vanish with a flourish of diamonds. The woman gaped at him in alarm.

“Hey! That’s ten rupees! You pay for things where you’re from, right?!”

“Well … hm, no, actually. But I don’t see a map here to pay for, do you?” The spirit asked sweetly, and then he laughed, much to the old woman’s evident frustration. “But, listen … if you tell me where I might find a gathering place for the wicked and wretched, you can name your price.”

That silenced Mila, who had rolled up another map in preparation to swat her guest with it. It immediately fell from her hands and she stared suspiciously up at the man, stroking her pointed little chin.

“Wicked and wretched, you say? You would be more likely to find more of _your_ ilk in Castle Town. I have heard they prefer to gather right under the noses of the Royal Family and their guard. They might be mere bandits but they have more links to the kind of world you’re after than I do. Apparently, they meet in the labyrinth of sewers every night.” The woman cleared her throat suggestively, then, and held out her hand. “That kind of information is double what the map’s worth!”

Ghirahim extended a hand as if to toss some rupees Mila’s way - but he snapped his fingers again, and a giant bird cage that had formerly been balanced precariously atop a pile of bric-a-brac nearby was magicked to instead ensnare the old woman. With a yelp of surprise, she grabbed the bars and shook them, only to end up toppling the entire cage over and rolling off underneath a cluttered table.

“Hey! HEY! Let me out, you little …! GAH! Son of a moblin! Give me that map back right now!”

The sword spirit, however, was already halfway to the door. With a cruel laugh did he open it and turn back to the poor shopkeeper, tossing his hair over his shoulder and winking charmingly.

“Let’s not tell _Lord_ Ghirahim what to do, now, shall we? I take what I want, when I want, and I will raze this pathetic ranch if I get so much as a peep from you again. Oh - and thank you for that valuable information, good lady. Fear not - I will be out of your hair soon enough.”

“Oh, curse you! You and that masked monster! Where is it you’re all coming from, huh?!”

Pausing, Ghirahim tapped impatiently on the side of the door. “Who is the masked one?”

“Like I’d tell you if I knew! It ruined my whole shop when it realised I didn’t have the silly sword shard it was after!”

Surprise alighted in his chest. Sword shard? He felt certain that he was complete; he could not detect any defects with his physical form, so what about him had caught the masked creature’s attention? It was hardly possible that anybody other than a high-ranking demon even knew what he was, and yet he had sensed nothing demonic about that mysterious figure. Still … perhaps demons had changed since he had last been in contact with them.

Turning the sign on the door so that ‘closed’ was presented to the outside, Ghirahim stepped neatly outdoors and magically locked the door behind him, ignoring the woman’s shrieks of betrayal.

Now, it was not that he could not find simpler means by which to acquire what he needed, for he was definitely not lacking in an ability to charm and persuade, but he did also possess an innate desire to cause as much trouble as he could get away with. He had no care for this land nor the Hylians - in fact, any race aside from demons tended only to infuriate him, so as far as he was concerned, the land was in dire need of his help until its rightful ruler was back in place. And once again, it was the demonic blade’s task to locate and defend his master irregardless of what happened to anything else. That was the very purpose for which he was built.

He glanced towards the shade of the barn again. The robed creature was not there.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, Ghirahim was alone in a small but cosy room on the upper floor of the inn after having tricked Hilda into believing he was an envoy of the Royal Family. There had been no real reason to lie and trick other than the fact he could, and supposedly he was carrying an important message westwards but had lost his horse after being attacked by bandits. No doubt she would find out the truth sooner or later from Milon, but he cared not, for one he had established a route, there was no reason for him to stay much longer.

Outside, the world was quiet and peaceful. Most of the ranch’s visitors had head indoors as evening settled in. Ghirahim’s room had a particularly spectacular view of the house on the hill and the expansive world that waited beyond, and the sky was streaked with beautiful reds and oranges as serene twilight descended to cast Hyrule in its haunting glow. The room was turned golden with the sunset, and the spirit took a moment to gaze out of the window towards the black clouds on the horizon. With a small sound of discontent, he moved to the vanity on the other side of the room, instead, and seated himself down, admiring his own reflection as his skin became bathed in gold. He smiled at himself, though it was a vaguely uncertain kind of smile, not quite meeting his eyes.

He blinked, and then the masked creature was there behind him, beside the window.

Ghirahim did not turn, though was ready to react quickly. He watched the figure in the reflection of the mirror. It was too tall for the room, so was somewhat stooped, not quite as imposing as before in such a stance. It moved slightly towards the window and slowly reached out an arm towards the soft, golden light that shone in through the glass, a large and oddly shaped hand emerging from the long material of its cloaks to test the air like one might test the temperature of water. Its arm was oddly elongated, though there was little chance to observe the strange markings on its mottled grey skin before the limb quickly vanished back into the depths of its attire.

“Well, well,” Ghirahim purred in greeting, despite the prickles that raced down his spine. “Who might you be?”

The strange being did not answer. It did, however, raise its arms again, this time to produce something from its cloak: a necklace of rubies. It glittered brilliantly in the light, each end held in both hands. It was the same piece from the shop, most definitely, now being held up in some sort of … peace offering, perhaps? A gesture of goodwill? Or maybe the creature was attempting to lure him with it. Whatever the case was, it wasn’t doing a particularly good job of expressing its intentions.

“Oh, how romantic,” sighed Ghirahim, suggestively stroking his fingers about his neck and gazing longingly at the necklace in the mirror’s reflection. “Is that for me? How lovely it is, though there is something I’d like even more than that …” He slowly stood and turned to face his mysterious visitor, half expecting the creature to vanish, but there it remained. It did, however, take a panicked step back, the necklace disappearing back into its robes as it shrouded itself protectively. With a self-satisfied smile, Ghirahim continued, “I’d like it if you tell me what you know.”

The figure shifted slightly, that expressionless, silver mask betraying nothing of its emotions.

“Are you … the blade?”

There was an unearthly quality to the creature’s voice. Assumedly male with its low tone, it was soft, too, and there was an odd, bright resonance to it, as if he was speaking in a cathedral hall. The alien voice was tinged with an accent that could not be placed. It seemed thin, perhaps. Weakened.

“I am _a_ blade, assuredly,” Ghirahim answered carefully. He ran a hand back through his hair, briefly exposing the dark diamond shape on his cheek. “Who’s asking?”

There was a moment of silence as the figure leaned forwards a little, its head tilting this way and that in a manner reminiscent of a reptile.

“You … smell like _him._ ”

Yes, finally they were getting somewhere! A sudden excitement pulsing through every inch of the sword spirit, he maintained his carefree, cool demeanour and simply raised an eyebrow in acknowledgement of the observation, moving his hands elegantly to his hips. If he frightened the creature off or gave it any reason to vanish, he would yet again be left alone and clueless, so it was imperative to keep the thing interested and calm lest it disappeared without a trace. With a smaller, more inviting smile, he sat back against the vanity, his poise entirely non-threatening.

“Demise, you mean?” Ghirahim enquired eagerly.

“Demise … I do not know. But _Ganon_ …”

Ghirahim merely tilted his head despite the questions rampaging through his mind at that moment.

“Are you a servant of this Ganon, hm?”

Any further thoughts were interrupted when a sudden and shrill sound emerged from behind that damned silver mask. The ghastly noise finished with what sounded like a mixture of a hissing and rattling, like an oversized serpent was hiding beneath those robes. The creature slammed a fist back against the wall and made that horrific rattling sound again in a sudden display of fury, and Ghirahim was careful to maintain his position of non-violence. For the time being, at least.

“Fine, then, not a servant,” he surmised, fighting amusement. “Perhaps we could become more acquainted if you took off that mask of yours, as lovely as it is.” Truly, it was a morbid curiosity driving the request, for he wandered what kind of wretched creature would be forced to hide itself from the likes of the accepting Hylians below. Some kind of beast, assuredly, just as hideous as the demons that once roamed the very field the ranch occupied. Maybe it _was_ a demon, that much was yet unclear.

It seemed to loosen up from its minor tantrum, tentatively straightening again as far as the ceiling would allow.

“How is the twilight?” It asked, a rasp to its voice, now. As if seeking to answer its own question, the creature reached up, lowered its hood, and then removed the mask that had been, by some atrocity, concealing its face.

Ghirahim’s jaw dropped. He had expected a gnarled, twisted face. What he was met with was quite the opposite. The creature, whatever it was, bore perfectly symmetrical features, angular with smooth, pale grey-blue skin. The nose was wide and strong - there was no indication where the forehead and nose separated, and a glowing turquoise tattoo or marking occupied them. The lips were soft, a darker grey in colour, and odd notches in the corners of the mouth made it unclear as to whether the man was smiling or frowning. Most beautiful of all, however, were his eyes, cat-like in shape, aglow with colours that matched the sunset outside the window, framed by darkness and markings that resembled black tear streaks. The pointed ears were similarly black, though adorned with those glowing blue shapes. At odds with the pale countenance was a headful of blood-red hair, short at the fringe but longer at the back, a silky smooth train of it ending at the base of a long neck.

The sword spirit had momentarily forgotten himself, but it could not be helped. He had been met with an unearthly beauty and was not entirely sure how to process just what - or _who_ he was looking at.

“The twilight is beautiful,” he heard himself murmur. “Just like you.”

The creature’s lips parted slightly in surprise, just barely revealing two rows of pointed, needle-like teeth. Indeed, every rose had its thorns, but to Ghirahim they made the rose no less appealing. Perhaps only more enticing. In a rare moment of weakness, he forgot about his own vanity, his own carefully maintained appearance, entirely entranced by what he saw until he finally could manage to pull himself out of his hungered reverie. Composing himself, he settled on inspecting his nails for a moment, instead.

“Who are you, then? It seems a tragedy that such a face is not shared with the world more than it is.”

The creature’s mouth closed, then, and something in his expression shifted, though barely. The mask had, at least, been an accurate representation of how well his emotions could be read.

“You dare mock me, blade?”

“Oh, no. Believe me, this is one of the very few times in my life I have been completely sincere.”

There was a pause, during which the cloaked man curled his upper lip threateningly and displayed those sharp teeth, though it seemed a more minor defensive reaction born from uncertainty. Though his glowing eyes were difficult to read, they narrowed slightly, and his poise was taut. It seemed as though he was restraining himself from reacting to an imagined slight, and Ghirahim was half-tempted to provoke him further, just for the fun of it. Not yet, not until he had learnt the truth in its entirety.

“My name … is Zant,” the man answered at last. “I have been piecing you together for … _years_. And now … here you are. The last piece, it took so long … but I found it, I found it.” Zant closed his eyes and ran his robed hands down his face, apparently out of sheer relief. He then snarled in a sudden turn of emotion, fingers digging into his pale cheeks. “And then I was attacked by bandits on the road. I thought that they would steal you away. They all paid the price … for daring hinder what must be done!”

“And what would that be?” Ghirahim asked calmly, though he was inwardly giddy with excitement. Who else other than his master could have motivated the resurrection of his trusted blade?! Watching the man intently, he moved forward slightly when he saw the other stumble out of an apparent weakness, though made no attempt to help.

“To _find him_ …” Zant crowed miserably, dropping down onto one knee. With a short, whining sound, he pulled himself onto the bed and laid there, his legs hanging off the bottom end. “Before the light takes me.”

Finally inspired into action, the sword spirit moved forwards and closed the curtains, hiding the last of the sunset from view and casting the room into near darkness. Turning, he found a pair of orange eyes watching him from the bed, a pair of naked candle flames in the dim light. The creature seemed far larger up close, but despite his size, he was clearly vulnerable, too. A creature of darkness, weakened by the light, and the very idea left him shrouded in mystery. His goals were even more interesting, however, because the implications of Demise’s influence were strong, or at least, Zant was the strongest lead that he had at that moment.

“Who is he to you?” He asked, moving slowly to the side of the bed. He was met with a blank stare.

“Ganon,” was the blunt response.

“No, who is he to _you?_ To me, Ghirahim, sword of the Demon King, he is my master. Who is he to you? Why did you spend all your valuable time piecing me back together, hm?”

Within the darkness, the tall form of Zant seemed to be slowly fading. It continued to fade until there was a ghostly, vague shape of him left in his place. When this shape spoke, his voice seemed all the more distant than usual as the shadowy spectre shifted like dark magic, aligning perfectly with Ghirahim’s shadow and then sinking slowly into it.

“... he is the beginning, he is the end.”

Ghirahim was left alone, or so it would seem to an outsider. It seemed his shadow was now something of a hiding place. Useful, indeed, though just how useful would the mysterious Zant be, in the end? The spirit took the map from the bedside table and unfolded it, spreading it across the bed. Questions lingered, though he was sure answers would come sooner rather than later.

Kneeling down and smirking, he walked a pair of fingers up the distance from Milon Ranch to Castle Town.


	2. Shadow of the Past

Ghirahim was staring at the map well into the night, taking it all in.

Was it that places had moved around and gotten bigger, or was his artificial memory faulty or slow following his recent resurrection? His eyes moved quickly about the detailed drawing, trying to find something uniquely familiar that he could place to his master, somewhere that he might find a new incarnation of the Demon King and be where he belonged at his side. There were no answers, however. Not yet, but the blade was built to be resourceful, and so he was, even all these millennia into the future.

Seeing a small shift in the corner of his eye, he turned his head slightly to see that his shadow had lengthened and moved of its own accord. Though he was sat cross legged on the bed, the shadow appeared more as a standing man, long and dark, and then a pair of orange eyes opened to look at him from the wall it was cast against.

Reaching over to the lit candle on the bedside table, Ghirahim moved it, watching the shadow intently. It flickered, as if forcing itself to stay in place.

“ _Stop that,_ ” Zant barked at him from within the shadow, flaming eyes narrowing. Ghirahim smirked and placed the candle back down before holding up his hands in an innocent gesture, shrugging.

“Only curious,” he explained. “How was your little nap, hm? Is it cosy in there? Or maybe you were admiring me in secret? Well, I wouldn’t blame you if you were, you know, though I would kill to be able to look at you again, if you would grant me such a pleasure.” Leaning back on his hands, he offered the shadow a flirty little smile.

Zant’s eyes narrowed yet further until they were mere slits.

“They are coming for me. And they are coming for you, too,” he said ominously.

“Oh! How forward of them,” Ghirahim returned with a laugh, kicking his leg a little in his humour. “ _Who_ is coming for us? You could have mentioned this earlier, you know.”

“The bandits in red …” Slowly, the shadow of Zant began to move, gliding around the walls and furniture until it arrived at the window. The upper half of his body disappeared into the window frame for a moment as he presumably looked outside from the other side of the wall, then he pulled himself back inside and looked at Ghirahim. “Those fools … they did something terrible to me. I found some of your shards in their hideout and have gathered the rest ever since … fleeing from one shadow to the next.”

Trying to make sense of Zant’s words, Ghirahim sat up again, more than interested in what - or who - the mysterious creature spoke of.

“Why did they have my shards? Who are they?”

“ _Vermin_ ,” Zant hissed agitatedly. “Thieves. False shadow-dwellers. Light-world _rats_. They were trying to summon demons with the magic in your pieces.”

“Then why did you _stop_ them?” Ghirahim sighed, flopping back onto the bed with dramatic flair. “If Demise has become this Ganon of yours, then we are on the same side, aren’t we? The larger the demon army, the better!”

He was met with a brief silence. Glancing up, he saw the shadow staring unblinkingly at him from beside the window. He took the opportunity to strike a rather more suave kind of pose, shifting the map onto the floor as he rolled onto his side and rested his head on his hand. There was no reaction to be seen, though granted, a disembodied silhouette could be difficult to read. Zant spoke again, clearly unimpressed.

“I thought you would be of more use to _me_ ,” he explained. “They had me caged like an animal. I heard them say all kinds of terrible things; what they would do, perhaps they would give me as a gift to their leader once they figured out what they could take from me.” There was an underlying rage to Zant’s voice. It strained his words with an age old tension. “They pulled me back into the world of the living. I was a mere spirit, for so long … tied to this realm in death after Ganon died … my soul had been bound to his. I had to find him again! And I felt his power in your shards, so I used it to escape and cast shields that would protect me from the light, for a time … I was - I have been trapped in the shades of wretched light-world monstrosities for so long!”

“Is that so?” Ghirahim asked smoothly. “It seems that you and I share a common goal. Maybe these bandits are the key to finding Demise - or Ganon, after all.”

“No, no, I am not as stupid as that,” Zant argued back, somehow wounded by the suggestion. “They do not know where he is. They only want to use things touched by old magic for their own gain. They were fascinated by us both … I am a Twili. Shadow magic is my heritage, it is in my very blood. These bandits even wore a symbol of my people … They dared desecrate such a thing?!”

“A Twili?” The sword spirit repeated. He had never heard of such a creature. It would partly explain why his inner analytics upon looking at Zant had been so garbled and illegible. Yet, there had been something about him not entirely alien.

“Yes … Hyrule’s light casts many shadows. The Twilight Realm is one. My people cannot exist in Hyrule, just as Hylians cannot exist as themselves in Twilight. Only by noble blood and sorcery does my body persist.” The Twili loosed a sudden and unexpected little cackle at that, the sound very much at odds with the usual cold tone he utilised, and it was laden with evident manic desperation. “And sheer force of will! I will bear this agony until the day comes I meet Ganon again!”

Intrigued by what he had learnt of his odd companion so far, Ghirahim quickly analysed the situation. Neither of them knew where their master was, that much was clear, and Zant had raised him in the hopes of being led to the demon to … gain permanent protection against the realm’s light, perhaps? The Twili sorcerer’s intentions were yet unclear, but the sword spirit could see well enough just how desperate the man was to get back to Demise, a need that he could understand well enough.

With a thoughtful expression, he moved a hand and touched the shadow that extended from him, rubbing the bed with an inviting air.

“Tell me, Zant … Are all Twili as pretty as you?” He asked, quite out of the blue, and he laughed when he saw the other physically jolt with surprise. “Come here, then. Maybe I can refresh your shields, or at least lend you the power to do so. I will deliver you to our master unscathed.” When he was met with hesitation, he offered the most charming smile he could muster, softening his voice in a way that one might speak to a frightened hound. “Come. I won’t hurt you, not like these horrible little Hylians, hm?”

After a few moments, Zant eventually began to manifest, emerging from the shadow as a ghostly spectre before solidifying. Ghirahim’s breath caught. He was surprised by the depths of his own sudden attraction, for while he could easily appreciate the beauty of another as much as his own, there was something else that enticed him, too, though could not figure out what. Perhaps it was the enigma of the dark being, the strange way he talked and moved, the beautiful, ghoulish eyes. Perhaps it was that recognition of a familiar, now, somebody who had known his master at a deeper level than most. Whatever it was, Ghirahim felt drawn to the creature, drawn to the darkness that emitted from his very skin, and he kept his gaze intently on the tall being as he slowly, curiously drew forwards. He sat up and rubbed the bed again, inviting the Twili to sit down, but was only met with a dense kind of stare.

So Ghirahim stood up, instead, and took a small step forwards so that he was stood directly before Zant. He barely came up to the man’s shoulders. Keeping his gaze turned upwards, he tried to read Zant’s face, but it was still impossible; he was blanker than a sheet of parchment. However, it was promising that the Twili did not move away despite how tense he appeared.

“Look at me,” the sword spirit said, his voice perfectly level and calm to ease the skittishness he could sense in the other. “May I see your hand?”

That blank stare did not move from him as an arm slowly emerged from the layers of cloaks Zant wore. With a hand and forearm exposed, Ghirahim admired the strange, dark patterns that decorated the mottled grey skin, and he made a mental note to later ask what they were. The hand was odd, too; the two middle fingers were the shortest. Eagerly absorbing these differences, Ghirahim raised a hand when he saw that Zant’s was shaking like a leaf either from fear or weakness, and he made a small shushing sound in further attempt to placate him. Then, he took his hand into his own, finding the skin completely smooth and cool to the touch, leaning forwards a little to kiss the back of it.

Glancing up, he saw that Zant’s eyes were wide and that his ears had perked. A strange, cooing noise emitted from the Twili, his pale throat vibrating in a satisfied little rumble. No doubt he had found himself enjoying the reverence and attention - he _had_ mentioned being of noble blood, and Ghirahim was quick to leap on such an opportunity; he too was a scorned lord, touch-starved and lost in an unfamiliar world.

“What a pleasure it is to have met you,” he purred. “Is there such a thing as romance in your realm?”

Zant cocked his head a little. “What is romance?”

At that, Ghirahim laughed quietly, squeezing the larger hand still ensnared in his.

“I can see why he might have enjoyed you so much, Twili.”

The look of sudden repulsion was unexpected.

No sooner had Zant yanked his hand abruptly from Ghirahim’s hold, he was forcing him so hard into the vanity that the wood and glass splintered noisily beneath him. Stunned, Ghirahim gaped up at the man from the ruined furniture. Had that _thing_ just had the absolute nerve to attack him? _Him?!_ Over what - a mere compliment?

Quickly picking himself up from the broken shards, the spirit teleported directly behind Zant and thrust himself through the air, kicking the creature so hard in the back that the other went flying into the flimsy, wooden wall, crashing through it and crumpling to a heap. Through the rather large hole that had formed, a Hylian woman had her bedsheets pulled up to her chin and was screaming in alarm, the shrill sound irritating and made only more unnerving when Zant joined in, shrieking and causing a din in evident panic.

Watching the display with surprise, Ghirahim raised his eyebrows as he watched his companion become lost in his fear. The Twili gripped his head and kicked the floor with his feet in upset, far from the ice-cold mystery he had been moments ago, flailing as if he thought the sword spirit might suddenly be intent on killing or maiming him for his transgression.

Stepping into the room, Ghirahim silenced the screaming woman with a wave of his hand, muting her with magic. She grabbed at her own throat in horror before escaping from the bed to dress herself in a robe and flee the room completely.

“Excuse us,” he said to her as she passed, as polite as he was cruel. With a sneer did he confidently stand astride his struggling companion and then lower himself down, pinning the creature via his waist and wrists. He waited as the squirming gradually began to die off - Zant was still weakened in the world of light, after all, and no match for the Sword of Demise. He only smiled when the Twili hissed at him from below, unintimidated by those exposed, pointed teeth and the way the strange notches in the corners of his mouth rattled with that serpentine sound. “Yes, it’s all rather very frustrating, isn’t it? Hush, now, you damned fool. No doubt we just outstayed our welcome.” Met with another rabid hiss in response, he tutted. “What a ferocious temper you have. I like that. How do you go from being so cute one moment to wanting to tear my throat out the next?”

“Do not insult me!” Zant bellowed back at him. “DON’T TALK TO ME LIKE I’M - LIKE I’M -!” Apparently unable to finish, he slammed his own head back against the floor out of sheer frustration or whatever else, and did it several more times until Ghirahim could keep his arm pinned with his elbow and use his hand to soften the blows, eventually holding the Twili’s head still.

Ghirahim had to question himself. Normally, he might have simply watched the scene unfold with amusement, but he felt a certain protectiveness when it came to this odd stranger. Indeed, perhaps again it was that feeling of finding kinship in a new world, or perhaps it was because he felt as though there was yet more to unravel where Zant and his relationship to Demise was concerned. If Zant was a necessary component in Demise’s plans, then Ghirahim would be the one to deliver him to the Demon King.

Leaning down, he kept Zant pinned and immovable, gently massaging the back of the man’s head. The hair his fingers were caught in was so soft it was like water slipping between his fingers. After a few gentle shushing sounds close to the other’s ear, he felt the straining body beneath him gradually begin to settle back onto the floor.

“Enough of that, my friend. I was not insulting you, though perhaps the compliment was poorly worded. Strike me again and I will strike you right back. Do you hear me?”

A feeble snarl was the returned gesture. Angry tears had gathered in the Twili’s sunset-orange eyes, and he furiously tried to look away from Ghirahim, sneering at the wall, instead. The sword spirit frowned and sat up straight, folding his arms as he peered down at the formidable creature.

“What happened to you?”

There was no time for further altercation or conversation. A clamour arose from outside the door, downstairs in the tavern. No doubt their presence had been alerted to whoever it concerned. Under normal circumstances, Ghirahim might have delighted in fighting off the pathetic humans once and for all, perhaps even in razing the settlement entirely, but the situation here was rather fragile, apparently, and he did not want to send the Twili into another tantrum lest he lost trust in Ghirahim completely. The better solution was to find a way out of any potential conflict, ideally on the path towards their shared goal.

“Climb into my shadow. I will get us out of this filthy ranch,” he demanded, leaping off his companion’s prone form.

Zant seemed ready to complain, though when the shouting of men below became all that closer, he flinched and immediately separated into shadowy particles to do as bid, vanishing into darkness. Meanwhile, Ghirahim darted back into their room and gathered the map up off the floor to quickly fold it.

Hearing the careless scuff of a foot behind him, he turned. There were people at the door, four of them, but they did not seem to be dressed as typical Hylians. These people were dressed in a mostly red and form-fitting garb, every inch of their bodies concealed, and they wore white masks, too … masks that bore a symbol recognisable to Ghirahim.

It couldn’t be. Though the eye symbol looked different to before, it was undoubtedly related to that of the Sheikah, the ancient tribe chosen by the goddess Hylia to be her guardians. Did the tribe still persist after all that time? The sword spirit felt a deep, unbridled rage begin to bubble up in his chest as he glared at what he could only presume to be Sheikah warriors; they had caused him so many problems, for so long! And somehow they had still managed to stand the test of time despite their precious goddess no longer existing in a divine form.

“What is it you want from us?” Ghirahim spat, summoning a Demon Blade to his hand. “We have done nothing to endanger Hylia and her people!”

Yet, at least.

The red bandits stopped slinking forwards and looked at each other. They guffawed like idiots, one even slapping their knee in amusement, and the sword spirit momentarily lowered his blade in confusion.

“We are the Yiga Clan!” One of the bandits announced, and the group collected themselves and raised their dangerous looking sickles ready to attack. “Not the cowardly Sheikah. Lower your weapon, blade, and we can talk.”

The group ceased their approach, sickles held firmly in hand, very gingerly lowering them back down, but Ghirahim could tell by their stances that they would be ready to strike at any moment. He did not fear what mere mortals could do, so to speak, though he did not know if their magic had advanced to the point of being a threat, and in addition, it wasn’t just himself that he had to worry about, now. He lowered his blade slightly and relaxed his poise, though was careful to watch each and every of the bandits, not stopping to even blink.

“A little bird told me that you were using me to summon demons,” Ghirahim said lightly. “Why is that, hm? You really should have asked, first.”

“We were working on putting you back together. The legend of the Sword of Demise has passed down through our people since your creation. We could not find the last few pieces, but it seems the shadow creature was able to sniff them out,” the lead bandit explained. “Our leader only wants to work with you to achieve domination over Hyrule. Our people are so few, we need numbers!”

“Who is your leader?” The spirit asked with a tinge of hope.

“Master Mida. She’s so hot!”

“She’s so hot!” The other bandits repeated in unison.

Quickly becoming bored with the Yiga, Ghirahim sighed and sheathed his sword upon realising they were about as threatening as washed up jellyfish. He shook his head with disappointment.

“I only serve one master. Demise … _Ganon_. Not a pack of washed-up Not-Sheikah. Come find me again when you know where he is!”

“Bah!” The lead Yiga scoffed, twirling his sickle in his hand. “Your master _failed_. He failed time and time again and our Clan have not devoted themselves to him for an age. It is down to the likes of us to revolt against the goddesses and their tyrannical hold over Hyrule! If you are too cowardly to join us, at least give back what is _ours_.” He pointed at Ghirahim’s shadow.

It seemed there was yet more to the Twili than he had originally thought. The creature had mentioned the Yiga wore a symbol of his people - which could only be the inverted eye painted clearly on their masks, a bastardisation of the symbol of the ancient Sheikah. What exactly had unfolded in the time Ghirahim had been shattered? Massive political shifts? Great wars? It was difficult to comprehend, even for him, and as he contemplated just how much he didn’t know, the angrier he became. His servitude to Demise was all he knew, now, and it was all he had to fall back on.

Regardless of his rage, he smiled at the bandits and laughed condescendingly. With a snap of his fingers, he magicked away their trousers until they were all left in nothing but their undergarments, much to their apparent shock as they dropped their sickles to cover themselves in attempts to maintain their dignity. Little dignity remained, however, as they hopped around in fury, searching about for their missing clothes and shrieking to the high heavens.

With that, Ghirahim teleported in a flash of diamonds, reappearing outside of the inn. To his surprise, the invasion of the Yiga had not been reserved to the sword spirit alone. There were more of them bounding across the thatched roofs of the ranch, setting fire to them as they went, while others had stolen horses and were riding the terrified beasts through the unsuspecting settlement. Travellers and ranchers alike were running about in their panic having been awoken in the depths of night, some of them trying to fend off the Yiga with pitchforks and torches while others watched in sorrow as their homes and livelihoods were destroyed before their very eyes.

He could see Milon desperately trying to find an opportunity to run from the doorway of his burning home to his barn without being spotted. In his arms was his screaming little daughter. Ghirahim despised Hylians, young and old, but he was surprised by the mindless destruction the Yiga had unleashed upon the ranch for no apparent reason other than to scare the denizens witless. There was no strategy behind them, only a rampant abuse of power against people with little ability to fight back.

It was … unimpressive, to say the least. No fun. Ghirahim felt more confident he had made the right decision in walking away.

But neither did he care enough to help the ranch, either.

As the shopkeeper (still trapped in the birdcage) rolled past him, screeching, Ghirahim ignored their plight and began to sprint eastwards. This was a conflict he did not care for, preferring to get himself back on track, instead, on the path towards Castle Town and its underworld of criminals. Demise _was_ waiting for him somewhere, he just had to be, otherwise - what would Ghirahim’s purpose even be?

The spirit ran and ran, ceaseless and untiring, even teleporting himself ahead as far as he could see in the distance several times, though the lack of light made it more difficult. The fields and hills seemed endless as he traversed them, though he took the time to mull over what he had learnt so far. It seemed there was something that had to be taken care of before he even attempted to infiltrate Castle Town.

He stopped teleporting quite suddenly, ending up stood inches away from a spring at the base of a small mountain. Peering down the crags and valleys, he could see a mighty castle surrounded by an enormous town a league or so away, the many spires of the place lit up beautifully by multi-coloured flames and the light of the moon itself. A large wall and moat defended the town, as did the mountains themselves, providing cover from almost all directions.

Turning his back to the town below, Ghirahim knelt beside the spring and dipped his fingers into the water. He could feel an old, gentle magic flowing through it, so brought it to his fingers to taste it with his long tongue. Whatever magics were woven into the nature of the place simply served to put one more at ease, so it seemed. Fairy magic, perhaps?

Lifting his head, he saw that the Twili had appeared on the other side of the small spring, his dark figure cloaked in the shadow of the mountain. He stepped forwards to dip a bare toe into the water testingly. The moonlight was highly fetching upon his skin, a silvery glow about him that made him appear more ghost than man. Distracted yet again by the Twili, Ghirahim had to shake himself back into reality, rising back to his feet to observe the other.

“Are you a Sheikah?” He asked coldly.

“No,” Zant responded in a similarly flat tone, though it was evident he had not yet quite cooled off following their brief altercation.

“You said that the bandits wore a symbol of your people.”

“The weeping eye, yes.”

Ghirahim lightly sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

“Is that not a symbol of the Sheikah? I have just woken up after a very, _very_ long time, and you might imagine that a little more context or information would be highly appreciated at this moment, given the Sheikah are the _sworn enemies_ of my kind. You know, not to be _dramatic_ or anything -“

“Your kind? Sword spirits?” Zant asked naively, raising a finger thoughtfully to his lips.

“No, _demons_ , you fool. Talk to me, will you? How about something of a history lesson before we assume that we are on each other’s side, here? I will not be transporting a Sheikah, of all things! Certainly not to my master!”

The Twili regarded him impatiently, staring down his nose at him, but relented. With a haughty air did he step down the shallow bank and sit himself on the grass, resting his feet in the cool, soothing water. Picking a weed from the grass, he sniffed at it experimentally, pulled a face, and dropped it in the water to watch it float slowly away.

“There were only stories passed down through time,” he began, glowing eyes turning back towards the sword spirit. “There were the Shadow Folk of Hyrule, some of whom became, hm … sick of the way things were. They would not be bound to divine cause. They left their tribe behind. Then there was the king in the desert, leader of proud thieves. They had been abandoned by the gods, left to starve … these two clans became one. With the shadow magic of the Sheikah and the strength of the Gerudo, they built a great city in the desert. Their advanced technology meant they could grow food and feed their children. They became strong, but angry … they used their dark magic to create weapons that would strike fear into the hearts of gods, and with them did they begin to conquer Hyrule. This tribe were the ancestors of my people.”

Ghirahim felt mildly infuriated when Zant paused, having found himself listening raptly. The Twili was clearly weary, eyelids becoming heavy, though was forced back into attention when the spirit loudly cleared his throat.

“Who was this king?” Ghirahim pressed.

“A Gerudo,” was the blank response, as if as much was obvious. “A powerful sorcerer. He took the leader of these Sheikah defectors as a bride, so the story goes. The royal family led the tribe on their conquest, only … the gods summoned light spirits to their aid. The dark weapons of the tribe were broken and sealed away, all but one, the Mirror of Twilight. The gods banished the tribe through the mirror, trapping them in the Twilight Realm for eternity. They evolved into the Twili. My people were left to pay for the crimes of their ancestors. They became … husks.” Zant’s lip curled in anger. “They became as barren and empty as the world they were trapped in. It was … so _infuriating_. So _unfair_. But there was nobody else who could see it like I could … and I was murdered for trying to finish what my ancestors started!”

The Twili had since stood up again and moved to the middle of the shallow spring. He stamped a foot, splashing the water about him. He was panting with poorly repressed rage, sharp teeth glistening in the moonlight. There seemed to be more that he wanted to say, but he simply groaned with upset, instead, his eyes alight with what could only be described as maddened desire. Ghirahim found himself more than impressed; he was not sure he had ever come across a being so filled with hatred (save for Demise, of course), and he had commanded many evil creatures in his time.  It was clear that the creature held not the loyalty to the gods that his oldest ancestors did, but was full of the very same contempt as Ghirahim himself.

Stepping into the water, the sword spirit smirked and elegantly brushed his hair out of his own face, sauntering onwards with a deliberate sort of movement to his hips. Standing in front of Zant, he looked up at him and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Well, I don’t suppose any of these weapons could be found … could they?” He asked suavely. Gesturing over Zant’s form, he continued, “Hm, no offence, but I doubt you are going to be much use to Ganon like _this._ This world is killing you. I can refresh your shields, but -“

“The Fused Shadow,” Zant breathed suddenly, leering down at Ghirahim with a disconcerting stare. “ _My_ birthright. _I_ was the firstborn, _I_ was …” Stopping himself, the Twili dug his fingers into his scalp a moment, eyes tightly closing. He shook his head, heaving in a dry sob. “It’s … somewhere, but …”

“Hush, now, poor thing,” the sword spirit lamented dramatically, eager to have the creature on side. Reaching forwards, he daringly placed a hand on the man’s chest and was surprised to be met with no resistance. In fact, his touch did seem to enable Zant to regain focus somewhat, peeling his hands from his face to look down at Ghirahim in what seemed to amount to confusion. “We will find the Fused Shadow, we will make you powerful again. How does that sound?”

Regarding him now with a degree of awe, Zant nodded endearingly.

“You … will help me?” He asked, and Ghirahim smiled charmingly in response, lowering his voice somewhat.

“How could I say no to such a face, hm? You did put me back together, after all, and I think Demise would permit me to do you a favour in -“

It was alarming to suddenly be face to face with something so alien - so _beautiful_ \- but Ghirahim stood his ground when the Twili stooped down to his level and pressed their noses together firmly. The creature’s large hands had wrapped around his head to hold him close, and the odd exchange lasted several awkward moments, the spirit feeling his nose squashing a bit under what he could only presume was something of a grateful gesture. He could feel magic pulsing under the rune now pressed directly onto his face.

“What’re you -“ he began, though was again interrupted when Zant began to dreamily rub his face against his, and it was about as much as Ghirahim could handle when he felt something liquid with an earthy, musky scent being deposited onto his face. “Eurgh - stop that! What is that?!” Backing off, he tried to wipe the substance away with his hands, fearing the worst - and indeed, the shadow creature was salivating from the slits in his mouth, but he was also smiling, quite distinctly. Caught off guard, Ghirahim blinked when his companion laughed - no, _giggled_ \- and disappeared back into the shadows below, the sound resonating off into eventual silence.

Crouching down, he used the spring water to clean the residue of the liquid from his face, muttering irritatedly to himself. Regardless of how hard he scrubbed, the scent lingered, even when he was back to running and teleporting towards Castle Town, he would keep catching a waft of the scent upon his person.

This was the first and _only_ time he would have a Twili as a fan of his.


	3. Below the Surface

Castle Town proved a lively place, even at night. The central street was broad and it branched off into several smaller ones, and they all were lined with those pretty, multi-coloured flames in sparkling braziers. Everything was squeaky clean, not a single tarnish on anything in site, to the extent that it struck Ghirahim as strange and he wondered if the doves sleeping on the guttering above would be shot down for so much as defecating on the recently scrubbed brick roads.

Leaning idly against a post box on the central high-street, he observed his surroundings and the people. Despite the late hour, it seemed the town never slept; shops were still open and people were going about their business. Some were gathered outside taverns, loud and rambunctious. The Hylians there seemed different to those at the ranch in that they were dressed in high fashion, likely richer with more money to spend on their appearances. Ghirahim even found himself admiring some of the colourful garments and jewellery he spotted, though did not quite like the idea of actually _fitting in._

Venturing off down one of the narrow side-streets, he kept on the lookout for anything that might have suggested a gathering place for the criminals of the town. As it was, he hadn’t even spotted so much as a sewer drain. Travelling from one road to the next, he became increasingly frustrated until he eventually had to sit down lest he lost his temper and drew attention to himself.

With his foot bobbing impatiently, he ended up sat outside of a small bar with a bottle he had no intention of touching, keeping his arms haughtily crossed as he glared off in thought. Gods forbid he had to actually _talk_ to these wretched people just to figure out where he was and where he was going. How embarrassing would that be? Especially in front of Zant, who had the fortune of being able to simply be along for the ride, unseen by the rest of the world.

There were two hags on the other end of his table playing cards and smoking with a hookah. He sighed in vexation loudly enough to be heard by one of them, and she raised a battered old horn to her greenish ear, turning it towards him.

“What was that, boy?” She croaked from beneath the many scarves that may as well have concealed her entire face. Upon closer inspection, her face was tattooed and she wore many rings on her gnarled fingers. “My, look at this handsome man, Kroku.”

“Very handsome, Kotuk,” her companion responded. The women may as well have been twin sisters for how they looked, though Kroku was apparently blind as Kotuk was deaf, given the proximity with which she held her cards to her face.

They finally had Ghirahim’s attention. Indeed, flattery was one way into momentary goodwill as far as he was concerned.

“I bet he’s on his way to the castle,” Kroku continued. “A prince from a far away land! A match made in heaven for our dear princess.”

“Oh, yes,” Kotuk agreed, purple eyes turning towards her cards. She turned them this way and that, wrinkled brow furrowing. “The cards say we will meet a servant, not a prince.”

“Well, _my_ cards say we will meet a prince, not a servant.”

“Well, you’re as blind as a keese, you know!”

“Ladies, please,” Ghirahim interrupted smoothly, flashing the pair his most dashing smile as he turned towards them. “I don’t suppose your cards could tell me the location of a demon of, well … particular notoriety, could they?”

The two hags gaped at him in shock - then made hasty shushing sounds at him as if he had just uttered a complete obscenity.

“Shh-sshh! You can’t say _that_ word here!” The deaf one insisted, digging the horn into her ear as if she had heard incorrectly. Ghirahim merely raised an eyebrow, resting his chin elegantly on his hand.

“What? Demon?”

The pair shrieked before managing to silence themselves. Their cards dropped haphazardly to the table in their alarm, and they quickly began to gather them up in panic. The sword spirit watched in dull amusement, though remained temporarily interested in the promise of witches in a town where actual sorcerers seemed to be very few and far between.

“Did you take a sneaky puff from the hookah?! Stop saying that, or the sentinels will come and obliterate us all!” Kroku hissed, pulling her muddled cards back up to her face. “Oh, the prince is wicked! Very wicked indeed! It says it right here, Kotuk! This boy has not known love in his entire life.”

“Ah, yes, yes, it is so! The _servant_ has no love for anything but himself. The arrogance of it!”

“It has been said,” Ghirahim agreed impatiently. “Fine, fine, are there any _men_ of great evil on the rise anywhere within Hyrule? Perhaps by the name of Ganon?”

The world seemed to fall silent at that moment.

The hags stared at him in shock, as did anybody else lingering outside of the bar. It was as though his voice had somehow echoed for miles all around and that he had spoken a word of such affront it felt as though everybody in the whole town had heard and been offended by it. When the very ground suddenly trembled, the Hylians immediately began to panic and they dived unceremoniously back into the closest buildings to them, slamming the doors and windows shut. And then there, at the crown of the street, something huge and monstrous cast its shadow over them all.

“What was that?” Kotuk asked, holding her horn this way and that. “Did he just say _Ganon?”_

_“_ Kotuk, nooooo! Move your sorry green behind!” Grabbing her sister, Kroku pulled them both away to the narrow alley beside the bar, and then she wildly gestured for Ghirahim to follow. “Quickly!”

The monster was in actuality a machine of some kind, Ghirahim noted as he calmly stood to face the thing head on. It had the vague, stone body of a female deity-like figure with six glowing red eyes and a similar amount of powerful flailing arms that seemed at odds with the graceful carving of its body. As the sentinel approached, those eyes became brighter and brighter until they flashed - and Ghirahim had a split second to conjure a magical shield just as the laser struck. The red beam rebounded off the dark diamonds he had conjured to defend himself and blasted the top half of a townhouse, leaving a smoking mess of rubble there in its place.

The laser struck a second time, and Ghirahim aimed his shield wisely so that the beam rebound again, this time straight into the sentinel itself. The machine was blasted apart, hanging on for dear life until its components crumbled uselessly to the scorched ground, springs and cogs and whatever else flinging in every direction.

So much for staving off attention, though he could not help but enjoy it.

With a smug smile, he ran a hand back through his hair and posed victoriously, laughing scornfully down at the wreckage of the mechanical monstrosity. He glanced back at the bar just in time to spot a terrified Hylian pointing urgently upwards, and he looked up to find multiple sets of glowing, red eyes shining down at him from the tiled roofs within the dark of the night.

Oh.

Without a second of hesitation, Ghirahim sprinted off and joined the hags as they ambled hurriedly down through the alley. One of them stopped halfway down and deftly kicked through a feeble metal grate attached to one of the buildings and hauled herself and her sister through. Without time to curiously peer inside, Ghirahim followed, hearing the mechanical moans and hums above that suggested the sentinels were getting ready to fire.

The resultant blast was near deafening. Throwing himself down the ancient, stone spiral staircase, he narrowly avoided being knocked flat by rubble as it came tumbling down from the ceiling. He landed deftly on his feet somewhere further down the tight curve of stairs and turned back to the witches, surprised to see that one of them had created a thick, steaming wall of ice to stop the rubble from falling further.

“Hoo boy!” Kotuk yelled excitedly, grabbing for her near-blind sister’s hand to guide her down the stairs. “That was an impressive display back there, Mister Servant! Where did you say you were from?”

“I didn’t,” Ghirahim answered crassly, continuing quickly on down the stairs. He took a flaming torch from the wall and held it aloft to get a better look at his surroundings when he reached the bottom.

The area was more spacious than he imagined. Stone arches and crumbling pillars held the world above aloft, and there were ruins of old buildings all around. The cobbled road was slippery and littered with rubbish and what looked surprisingly like bones and skulls. Tunnels led off in every direction, each of them crudely marked in bright red paint. Nearby, there was an old fountain no longer in use, the structure boasting a carven, winged Triforce. It seemed there was an entire city underground, one forgotten by time save for those who still needed its shelter, which seemed to be a fair few; there were others flitting between the tunnels, hidden from the red eyes of the sentinels.

“What did you have to go and say Ganon’s name for, huh?” Kroku chastised. She pulled a small wooden cane from her belt and flicked it to extend it. “Don’t you know that name is banned on the surface?! Now we won’t be able to show our faces up there for at least a day! Gods above, it’s hard enough to keep their eyes off us as it is!”

“Cut him some slack, sister!” Kotuk sighed, gazing dreamily towards Ghirahim. “He _is_ from a far away land! The poor thing had no idea.”

“This Ganon of yours - is he alive?” Ghirahim interjected quickly. “Where is he? _Who_ is he? Tell me swiftly, now, and I shall leave the two of you well enough alone.”

“There is no one called _Ganon,_ ” Kroku answered coarsely. “At least, not yet.”

“But there are rumours that the Chief of the Gerudo has a son, the first male in hundreds of years, which could only mean …” Kotuk continued. When they spoke again, it was in eerie unison.

“... the Demon Thief has returned to Hyrule.”

Ghirahim felt a sudden and intense elation. If the name Ganon was so hated that Hyrule would destroy anyone who merely spoke it, then this man, this entity … he without a doubt had to be _Demise_ , the eternal blight upon the land of the goddesses, striking fear into the hearts of all their people for all time.

He finally had a lead. _Direction_. He knew not of what they spoke of males and Gerudo but was quick to calculate just what they might have meant - that Demise reincarnated within the numbers of the desert people, for reasons unknown. Whatever the case, it seemed he would be heading south-west to the Gerudo Desert to investigate, and he was eager to simply drop everything and just _go …_ but there was only on thing from stopping him teleporting to the surface and just running and running until he got to where he needed to be.

He gritted his teeth. His shadow was suddenly feeling more and more like a hindrance - but he had offered the thing his help for a reason.

Turning to where the flame of his torch cast his shadow over cobbled stone, he scuffed his foot against it demandingly.

“Zant!”

There was no suggestion that the creature had heard him - or that he was listening. Uncaring that the pair of witches were still watching, Ghirahim knelt down and resisted the urge to slam a fist to the ground, instead lightly brushing the stone with his fingers. He had no idea if such a gesture could actually be felt, but if the reaction from when he had touched it before had been any indication …

Orange eyes narrowed at him, clearly annoyed. The Twili did not float like a ghost from the shadow, not this time, but instead weakly clambered out of it, long arms extending out to pull himself reluctantly into the light he so detested. It might have been dark down there among the tunnels, but Zant was clearly having trouble; he sat on the edge of the old fountain and kept his face shielded with the sleeve of his robes.

Ghirahim’s countenance immediately changed from one of irritation to something falsely nurturing. About to join the creature, he stopped only when one of the witches shrieked, apparently having finally come to terms with what they had just seen.

“AAAIIEEEEEE! A DEMON!” Kotuk screeched, and the sisters grabbed each other in fear, continuing to yelp and babble as they quickly tried to head towards one of the nearby tunnels.

The noise startled Zant, who jumped bolt upright and tried to hide his larger frame behind Ghirahim’s, peering at the women over his shoulder. Turning his head slightly, the sword spirit was surprised to see a glowing ball of dangerous red energy poised above Zant’s palm - though this magic quickly fizzled out, and he felt the other man slump back down. With a pitying kind of sigh, he knelt down by the Twili’s side and helplessly watched the thing suffer a bout of pain.

The beautiful, pale face was all the paler. The eyes glowed with far less lustre. Ghirahim realised that he had less time than he originally thought.

Waiting until the witches had made their escape, he boldly touched a hand to the Twili’s face and wordlessly called for his attention. He was careful to be gentle, turning that clammy but obscenely pretty head towards his as he helped Zant lean back against the crumbling stone of the fountain.

“Talk to me from the shadows,” Ghirahim urged. “As much as I love to admire you, you did not have to emerge completely.”

“It takes … magic …” Zant managed feebly. He closed his eyes, the blue-grey of his skin whitening more and more as the seconds passed. “What is it, blade?”

“Did you hear? The witches said that Ganon could well be in the desert, among the Gerudo. So, I would say that we should make haste, but … well.”

Those sharp teeth were truly formidable, even more so up close. Clearly threatened by Ghirahim’s subtle observation, the Twili hissed quietly and glared at him, though made no effort to move, whether out of stubbornness or an inability to do so. After that menacing sound, the creature sniffed and looked away, tightly bundling his robes in his hands to begin anxiously fiddling.

“If I just … the Fused Shadow … It is all I need, blade. I am sure an immortal being like yourself could spare the time to -“

“Can I?” Ghirahim interrupted, irritated by the assumption. “My _master_ is waiting for me in the desert. And what exactly do I get out of helping you, hm? What do _I_ get out of bringing a dying shadow of a being to him? If I know him - which I do - he will hardly be impressed with something that needs so much protection.”

“That is why I need the Fused Shadow!” Zant argued back shrilly, desperation in his eyes as he quickly looked back at the spirit. “It will empower me enough that I will regain my potential - and more! I must return to Ganon, and I will survive until I do so! I am sure you understand. I … I have not endured these years of agony just to die again!”

“I was not created to save lives, you understand,” Ghirahim pointed out, then followed it with a dramatic little sigh. “I have no idea who you are, who you were to Demise, so it seems to be in my best interests to leave you here so that I might be rejoined with him after these thousands of years. I am sure _you_ understand that our initial loss was … infuriating. I succeeded, only for us to fall at the last hurdle.”

Zant’s face fell. He quickly extended a trembling hand to Ghirahim’s shoulder and pulled him closer, and the blade could feel his sparse breath upon his ear. Despite his words, he found himself eager to find adequate reason to follow through with his words and take the time to assist his companion before finally venturing to the desert.

“If he is waiting for you, then why was I the one to put you back together?”

Now, sword spirits were artificial beings, certainly not designed for the purposes of feeling, though years of frustration had taught Ghirahim the mortal affliction of emotion. Maybe he did not feel those things in the same way an organic being would, but he still felt something, and sometimes the rage grew and grew to the point he lost his volcanic temper. What he felt now, however, seemed different to anger, at least at first. It felt as though something had seized the gem located at his centre and was squeezing it tightly.

“You know the meaning of reincarnation, don’t you?” Zant continued shakily, taking advantage of the blade’s furious silence. “The Ganon you knew - Demise … he is gone. And he has reincarnated into these men over and over. How often did he use that awesome power of his, that dark, golden power … to find you? He could have found you, blade, but it was I who did. _Me_. You will not abandon me, for you are as lost in this world as I am.”

The Twili spoke with such cool, menacing tones that Ghirahim temporarily found himself entranced by it, listening raptly as he once might have listened to Demise. However, the subject of conversation was not something that he found himself enjoying, particularly, and he told himself that the other man was almost definitely lying through his teeth, because there was no way that Demise would simply forget his own sword … not after everything that he had _done_ for him.

Despite the utter fury and whatever other infernal emotions blossomed in his chest, Ghirahim just laughed condescendingly and pulled back to rise to his feet. He unsheathed the rapier at his belt and stood before the crouched shadow creature, holding the perfect, sharp line of the sword close to that soft, pale throat.

“You seem so _sure_ ,” he cooed, using the tip of the blade to force the Twili to look at him. When those dark eyes were directed at him, he felt an infuriating uncertainty, though did not allow it to show in his countenance. “Such a shame. _You_ are not my master, and yet you dare tell me what I will and will not do? Still, perhaps I will be kind and put you out of your misery before you expire like a suffocating fish up there. Fear not, I will make it as clean as possible, for I would so hate to ruin something _almost_ as beautiful as me.”

Zant trembled, but he smiled in a manner so disconcerting that it caught even Ghirahim off guard.

“You will not.”

“No?”

“No.”

Such certainty should not have been so appealing.

“I spoke of a Gerudo king,” Zant continued. “A predecessor of my people. It was only when I died and my soul was forced to follow Ganon’s to this wretched world that I realised … he was not a god but a man. A king.”

Ghirahim felt the surface of his skin turn cold. Somewhere in his mind, he recalled that the witches had mentioned meeting a prince. It was not possible … was it? That he would be bound not only to his master but a diluted lineage descending from one of Demise’s many incarnations? It certainly explained the odd sense of protectiveness he had felt around the Twili more than once … and it meant, infuriatingly, that Zant was right. Ghirahim would not kill him. He couldn’t.

And even more rage-inducing were other implications that came with it.

“You knew he was a Gerudo all along,” the sword spirit observed, his cool tone barely concealing his utter vexation. “You just needed me to help you find that cursed artefact of yours!”

Zant had the nerve to actually giggle in response, a strange and manic sound in light of his fear and upset. Then he had the gall to turn his head further upwards, exposing more of his throat to the sharp rapier pressed to it, only making an example of this new dynamic to their relationship. It was becoming quite clear just how conniving the creature was. Mad, too, no doubt, though with an absolute knowledge of his own ability to forge power in a world where he had none.

The sword spirit was left with an intense ire. His hand gripped the hilt of his blade so tightly that it threatened to crumble between his fingers. He had been so sure of himself that he had underestimated this creature entirely. It seemed there was yet more left to learn, but where even to begin? He imagined that disaster of a Twili as royalty in his own realm, all that cunning, arrogance, and deranged ego cloaked with a deceiving exterior of cold collectedness. It was no wonder the man had been murdered.

Amongst the rage and confusion, Ghirahim did not expect to feel the heat of arousal seeping in, unwelcome. One of the few times he could curse his own inhibitions, certainly. Just who had the sword to whose neck?

Try as he might, he could not bring himself to allow that blade to piece skin. He gritted his teeth, tense with an internal tug-of-war. He wanted to spill blood but also _didn’t_ and the way the Twili knowingly watched him suffocate from below was absolutely wretched and enticing all at once. Zant knew as well as Ghirahim did that the spirit was bound to his cause now that they had come into contact with each other.

“ _You_ are not my master,” Ghirahim iterated, and he thrust his sword forwards threateningly, though it vanished in a burst of diamonds before it could do any damage. Satisfied by the shriek he caused, he stepped closer, lording over the weakened Twili in an attempt to assert his own authority. “Compared to the might of Demise, you are nothing. Just a frightened, trembling shadow that does not even deserve to stand in the formidable presence of a Demon Lord!”

Regardless of his rage, he did not move when he felt a pair of hands press gingerly to his thighs. Zant was still knelt down, though had weakly moved to shift his weight onto the spirit, instead, gazing up at him with wide eyes. It was as though the creature had read his mind - or was it that the accursed arousal that had arrived unannounced was more evident than he realised?

“A lord?” Zant repeated, the eerie whisper of his voice somehow louder than thunder in that moment. “The good lords and ladies of Twilight were similarly besotted, for a time … but still, I like to think I helped them when I came to know them intimately, and then they would help me with their loyalty, in turn …” The words were paired with a subtle squeeze of Ghirahim’s thighs. “Our race was so repressed, so afraid to _feel_. I felt as though I was alone. _You_ feel with such vigour, blade …”

“Do you really think that you can win me over that easily, Your Royal Highness?” Ghirahim asked dryly, though tilted his head slightly in consideration. “You are a vile snake of a Twili, aren’t you? How many Hylians have you ruined with your charms?”

“I prefer to turn my teeth to light-dwellers.”

“Is that so?” Reaching down, Ghirahim very carefully held Zant’s cheek once again, allowing the pad of his thumb to move experimentally over his grey bottom lip. It was soft but dry; the creature was parched, though the corners of his mouth were glistening with that mysterious, slightly musky secretion. “Then maybe you will be of some use, after all, though if you think I will spare _weeks_ looking for this Fused Shadow, think again.” At that, the spirit then knelt down to gaze at Zant more directly, lowering his voice. “And do not assume again that I am one of your naive little aristocrats. I know the game that you play all too well - and I daresay that I play it _better_.”

Admittedly, Zant’s thinly veiled offer had been tempting, though whether he had truly been serious remained unclear. It was something of a disappointment when the Twili let go and leaned back, his fading eyes narrowed into slits. There was no comeback to be heard, only an irritable, wheezy exhale of air, and the kind of expression one might associate with a sulking child.

Ghirahim could hardly believe that his partial purpose as a guardian was to be utilised by a near stranger - and that he didn’t have any say in the matter! How cruel it was to have been created by demons only to have such petty rules inflicted upon him. He was not sure if his annoyance regarding the creature’s apparent affliction was related to his mistrust of him or born of a sincere need to end his pain. Whatever the case, it seemed he had little choice but to begin the hunt for the dark artefact that would ease the harsh light.

He quickly retracted his hand from Zant’s face when the man snapped his teeth at him. With a short huff of laughter, he wagged his finger, though was careful to keep a small distance.

“Now, now, you oversized lizard. Shall we get back on track?” With a satisfied hum, Ghirahim stood up, brushing a hand back through his fair hair. “Do you have _any_ idea where the Fused Shadow could be?”

Zant made to answer, then paused. His black ears twitched, and he sniffed at the air.

Ghirahim could not sense anything other than themselves in that space and watched in confusion as the Twili attempted to bury himself back into the shadows, but it seemed that the ability was suddenly beyond him. His form turned momentarily dark and translucent, fading in and out as shadows feebly reached for him, but he reappeared moments later, looking stunned.

A shrill shriek echoed down the tunnel the witches had escaped through. The light of their torch illuminated the darkness of the tunnel as they began to reappear, running as quickly as their short legs would take them. The one in the lead cast a spell that covered the ground ahead of them in ice, expertly leaping upon it to skid along while her sister slipped and landed heavily on her crooked back, spurts of fire bursting from her hands as she fell. The fireballs were bright, soaring upwards and spreading when they hit the arched stone ceiling.

Feeling something gripping his legs, Ghirahim quickly looked down to see Zant pressed solidly against them with his face concealed by the sleeves of his robe. The man was whimpering in terror and shaking to such an extent that the sword spirit was filled with a sudden and innate fury towards the cause of the ruckus - _despite_ how Zant had annoyed him. Summoning back his rapier, he stood protectively over the other and sneered at the witches.

The first one (he still could not tell them apart) continued summoning her stream of ice and skated urgently along it towards the other side of the chamber. Her poor sister, who was following suit on her back like a spinning top, came to a sorry stop and quickly leapt to her feet to point frantically from where they had come.

“Ninjas!” She shrieked. “Not the cool kind! Hide yourself, boy! They’re tricky little - EEK!”

The sword spirit felt the burst of magic before he saw it. The darkened chamber was quite suddenly completely illuminated in red flashes of magic as multiple figures began to appear out of thin air. Their guise was familiar: they were the Yiga, without a doubt, all of them covered head to toe in crimson wear and white masks. Ghirahim quickly counted them as they rapidly appeared - thirty-seven, and all of them were quick to made their approach.

They laughed, and the room fell into sheer darkness as the flames of the torches were magically extinguished.

There was an unnerving silence, though it was short-lived. Before Ghirahim had the chance to conjure anything that might light the chamber again, he felt the tightness gripping his legs get roughly yanked away.

“No!” He heard Zant screech, and there came the resultant thumps and bumps of an altercation. He himself was immediately swarmed with a mass of bodies, and he was forced to magically shield himself from the blows of their sickles before they could damage his pristine form. With a furious grunt did he expel the power of the shield as a potent force that sent the Yiga flying off in all directions.

The stone chamber was lit in bursts as the witches were also attacked, one of them defending herself with remarkably powerful surges of fire magic while the other used bright streams of ice to freeze their assailants in their tracks. It was a beautiful display, one Ghirahim might have appreciated were he not otherwise occupied with fighting off the Yiga that continuously lunged for him. While he was the superior swordsman, he was also distracted; he could only hear Zant’s muffled cries from beneath a pile of attackers that pinned him down, the creature’s legs wildly kicking out until any movement died down into mere trembles and jerks.

A blade sliced along Ghirahim’s back, cutting through the illusion to leave a dark mark there across his shoulder blades. The Yiga responsible was swiftly silenced as the rapier slid through his rib cage in turn. With that one felled, the others seemed more nervous about approaching, at least from what he could see whenever the chamber was lit.

A haunting scream echoed through the chamber and through the spirit’s head.

It seemed to unlock something within him to hear it, to see the insufferable Yiga torturing a shadow creature with a torch. He could not see what they were doing, but the resultant noises were enough. His mind fell blank - no, determined, and any magic he might have been holding back on was swiftly unleashed.

He disappeared into the air and reappeared with a threatening bang closer to the huddle of bodies. His rapier was transformed into a heavy greatsword, and before he knew it, he was swinging it down onto the nearest of them, causing a mighty surge of electrifying red magic that bounced between all of the Yiga like lightning. The air was filled with the sound of yelps and the smell of burning skin.

But he was careless in his sheer need to defend. Another scream caused him to wince and actually feel weakened as it resonated through his very core. Stumbling back, his sword dropped and he watched in horror as Zant’s robes were steadily consumed by the fire of the torch dropped upon him. The sounds were ungodly as the creature shrieked and writhed in torment, and something in Ghirahim seemed to break, for he was so torn between hating his connection to him and a rare sympathy that his body seemed to forget how to move.

A violent burst of magic assaulted the remaining attackers until they crumpled like rag dolls to the ground, one by one. Some of them teleported away, defeated, while others did not move at all. Any others were quickly fought off by the witches with their opposing powers, and in her panic, one of them coated Zant’s robes in a layer of frost until the flames threatening to consume him ebbed.

Stunned, Ghirahim approached the Twili’s side and looked for the source of the magical pulse that had saved him.

If he had a heart, it might have stopped.

Bathed in the light of the witch’s fire was a new figure, this one tall and lithe. Her hand was still extended, and she lowered her smoking palm to dust it off. Her dark skin and white hair made her a reflection of a past foe that he did not want to revisit, and he might have been convinced it was _her_ if not for the fact the tattoos on her face were different. Cold, red eyes peered back at him, and the being folded her arms across her slim form as she regarded them. Even the witches had been stunned into silence.

A Sheikah.

Driven by a ferocious need for revenge, Ghirahim raised his greatsword and teleported closer to the woman in order to eradicate her from existence, but a burst of deep, blue magic forced him back until he stumbled over Zant’s prone form. The Sheikah shook her head once, impressively stoic, as her people had always been. Calm, but dangerous.

He had underestimated her. Leaping back to his feet, the sword spirit raised his blade again.

“No,” the Sheikah said in a low voice, infuriatingly at ease. “Lower your weapon if you want him to live.”

It was a cruel reminder of the attack they had endured. While it had been nothing for Ghirahim, there was a mortal body in his charge that had suffered in his negligence - in his _foolishness_. Startled by the self-contempt and feelings of absolute failure that took hold as he looked down at the crumpled body at his feet, he raised his hands to his head to grip it tightly, snarling in a formidable rage. No, this could not happen again! He could not fail again! It went against his code, it went against everything that he was made to be!

Dropping down, he gently turned Zant onto his back and was dismayed to see that he was paler than a ghost. There were patches of pink, burnt skin - the only colour to his body, now, for even his hair and eyes seemed extinguished. Maybe he would have survived the journey to the Fused Shadow if not for the Yiga’s attack, but now it seemed too late; the Twili was alive but so severely poisoned by light that it would surely only be a matter of time until he faded entirely, that admirable determination snuffed out into non-existence. Worse was the small moans of pain that clawed at Ghirahim’s very spirit, the shaking, desperate hand on his arm.

He could not fail again. He _would not._

Fighting his own contempt, he gritted his teeth and glared up at the Sheikah. If anybody might have been able to help, it was her, being kin of the Twili through time. How was it that one of _her_ kind could rectify his mistakes? It seemed a cruel twist of fate, but his instinctive need to serve overwhelmed his malice, and the decision was made.

The greatsword evaporated from his hand.

“I am Keeta, apprentice of Impa,” the Sheikah greeted flatly.

“What a beautiful name!” The witches, Kroku and Kotuk, called in unison. They cackled and approached, keeping the chamber alight with their magic, though Keeta paid them no mind, continuing to speak to Ghirahim as if he were the only one present.

“I am going to teleport us to a place I am better able to assist,” she said, taking an elegant step forwards. “Interrupt me and I will end you both.”

Ghirahim groaned in rage at mention of that name. 

_Impa_. 


End file.
